A Grey Kiss
by selhorys
Summary: Bran Stark is betrothed to an ugly girl.
1. Tales of Your Beauty

His bride was ugly, if you looked at her face.

Florent ears, people called them. And that_ jaw_... "I don't want to marry her." Bran shifted in his saddle. His straps felt uncomfortably tight as the girl rode up to him, a smile on her lips. The corner of those lips was stiff and cracked and grey and _ugly_. He'd always imagined wedding a girl who looked pretty and nice and in his mind he'd conjured a girl who looked a little like his sister Sansa. Westeros was ravaged by a civil war, yet Stannis' army had found him, and now he was marrying his ugly daughter. No one replied to his complaint. One man looked the same to the other, stony-faced and broad-shouldered and gaunt.

One of Shireen Baratheon's cheeks blushed. "I am graced in your presence," she said in a wavering voice that sounded stiff and rehearsed. Her mother probably taught her what to say.

"And I you," Bran replied rigidly. "I have... I have heard tales of your beauty..."

Shireen's head bowed. "And I have heard tales of your valour and bravery," she said quickly. A silence followed. Bran bit his lip and thought of Meera Reed. He could have married her, even though she was a frogeater. At least _she _was prettier than Shireen Baratheon. "I am... I am sad I do not have the, ah..." she stammered, unscripted words flowing awkwardly from her mouth. _I'__m marrying a parrot_. "I hope..." He tried to imagine what her kiss would feel like. _A grey kiss_.

"Shireen," a sharp voice cracked. Shireen turned and bowed her head again at her mother. Lady Selyse was sat on her own mare, nostrils quivering and disturbing the hairs above her lip. "Brandon Stark," she said. "Your lord father supported our king's claim. Did you know that?" Bran nodded, because he'd look stupid if he shook his head instead. "I hope you have the honour of Lord Eddard," she said, her voice a little nasal. "And you shall not resent Shireen. You are infertile, are you not?" Bran avoided Shireen's gaze and gave a sullen nod. A few laughs escaped the mouths of the men and went steaming into the cold air. "You are infertile?" she repeated.

Bran swallowed. He licked his lips. _I'm a wolf, and these are stupid stags_. "Yes, Lady Selyse."

Shireen muttered something. Bran turned his head. "Queen Selyse," the girl corrected, her voice barely audible. "My father is the rightful king to preside over the Seven Kingdoms, so my mother is a queen."

"I apologise. My lady." Shireen's face flamed again, and they swerved back into silence. Bran raised his voice. "Yes, I'm infertile, Queen Selyse!" Laughter stabbed at him like knives. "Your daughter is fair and sweet and just. I hope to be a good husband to her." _No I don't_. Selyse leaned in close, and Shireen's mare backed away like she sensed the queen had words only for him.

"Listen to me, boy." Selyse's voice was sharp and curt. "You will care for her, and you will be near her day and night until death comes to separate you." She grasped him roughly by the shoulder. Bran tensed. "There is no place for _love _here. Only duty. Remember that, Stark. You can only hope for anything once you surrender your desires to do what is right." Then she backed away from him, seizing her reins and leading her men back. Bran exhaled, sending steam into the insistent wind. He rode after them, murmuring. "But I always do what's right," he said to himself, resentfully. He looked at Shireen. She was facing away from him. Slowly, he surrendered his desires for duty.

Shireen was beautiful, if you didn't look at her face.


	2. Happy

"We don't have to... consummate it, Father says," Shireen whispered to him, perched on her chair as nervously as she had atop her palfrey. "I've - I've not flowered, see. Not bled..."

Bran cut in, sharply. "I _know _what flowering is," he said, his voice harsher than he intended it to be. in truth, Shireen was probably too stupid to realise that even if she had flowered, they would be unable to bed, but he had no desire to rectify her. They were sat at the head of the high table while minstrels drowned them out and men got drunk. King Stannis sat, grinding his jaw. _He had been riding to Winterfell before he found me_. Then, in his haste, he abandoned his operation for the time, taking Bran back to Castle Black. Bran knew never to ask the king questions, but he thought his half-brother Jon was on the Wall, yet he had not seen him so far. _I'll ask him soon_, Bran promised himself.

His lady wife nodded and lifted her pewter cup, draining the wine. She drank well. Bran mirrored her, downing his own. The rich Arbor gold left his head spinning awfully. He felt sick, but he didn't want to show it. "I wouldn't have the pease, if I were you," Shireen said, leaning in conspiratorially. "They're disgusting, you'll see." Her lips quirked like she was frightful near to smiling before thinking better of it.

He shrugged irritably, hearing the tones of a dull wedding song. He pretended not to hear her, but he avoided his pease all the same. Queen Selyse was watching him, he knew, so he leaned in and kissed Shireen's cheek. The pale cheek, not the grey one. His wife seemed surprised at the sudden affection, and Bran closed his eyes, fearing he would vomit all over her. He wished Summer were here, but Stannis had him chained because his direwolf scared Shireen. _She's spineless as well as ugly_, Bran thought with sudden poison. "I hope you're happy, my lady," he said quickly, because it sounded a nice thing to say.

Shireen Baratheon smiled shyly. "I am happy, my lord." Bran then knew what good a liar she was.

Later they were taken to their bedroom, like children. Bran was carried by a man he did not recognise, while his wife trailed behind. They were left there, Bran on the bed, already in his nightclothes, and Shireen still in her silk dress. She pulled it over her head, thinking Bran wasn't looking, but he did. She had the pointed breasts of a little girl, but her hips sloped out and her legs slim. Between her thighs was a juncture of thick black hair, and Bran stared. It was a bush dark as sin, contrasting with her sweet blue eyes. The way she tilted her head hid the greyscale that had claimed half her face. She looked -

Then she'd turned, pulling a modest gown to sleep in over her head, her square jaw tight. She pulled the covers over them and smiled at Bran. "Good night, lord husband," she said, as if she were deliberately avoiding the use of his name. But before he could reply, however, she'd blown out the candles and her dark ahead was on the pillow and the two of them were drowned in a sudden semi-darkness. _I am happy, my lord._


	3. Just an Instrument

"Hee hee!" Laughter rang about below like a clash of swords. Bran looked down from his chair, and the rays of weak, tentative sunlight pulled themselves in, wearily. He was dressed for the cold, swaddled in furs like a baby. He watched Hodor give chase to Shireen's companion, Patchface. He didn't know where Shireen was, and it bothered him for a reason he did not know.

"_HODOR HODOR HODOR_!" Hodor yelled, trying to throw himself on the fool, but with a light jingle Patchface rolled away, a smile on his soft, fat face, breaking into song so high of pitch Bran could not determine what he was saying. Hodor's mouth gave a slight spasm that could indicate a smile, and chased the fool again. Bran felt wistful, and not for the first time. He might have been able to outrun both if he wasn't Bran the Broken. Hodor began wittering again as Bran looked about the room he had slept in. There were some stacked books, a couple of ill-placed chairs, the narrow, slanting window. He reached for a book, bound in leather. It read across in bold text: **_The Histories and Ritualistic Aspects of the Faith of R'hllor._ **Bran did not know what the last word was, but his mouth formed the pronunciation somewhat like _rulore_.

He opened the book gingerly. He wondered what "ritualistic aspects" meant. Crude drawings of fire with annotations filled up the pages, and his eyes caught hold of words like 'whose name must not be spoken', 'see fig. A', and 'back the dawn'. He raised his brows and flicked back to the first brittle page. A man in red robes was urging a naked woman towards a great fire. _Rituals I: Pleasing The Lord of Light_. He began to read, his curiosity having overcome him, when he heard the shout of "Patches!" Startled, he dropped the book with a thump and looked down. Hodor was walking about in tight circles, and Patchface was hopping and singing. Shireen stormed over to him. "I told you not to sing that song," she said in a hard voice that did not resemble the tone she took with Bran. "Sing something _nice_." Patchface bowed clumsily, his tattooed motley face breaking into a grin, the bells on his antlers shaking. "Fine," Shireen said. "At least come with me to see Summer."

Patchface scuttled about, swinging his thick arms. "Under the sea, there is no summer, aye aye aye, I know." Shireen smiled a little, took his arm and led him away, but she did not notice Hodor running after them. Bran then realised what Shireen had said. _They said she was afraid of him_.

When he turned, he saw a woman he did not recognise. She was tall and slender, with a pale, heart-shaped face. Coppery red hair spilled down around her. She wore all red, a long red dress with a ruby at her neck, and when she looked at him, her eyes were red. Bran stuttered, "Who are you?" She merely smiled, contending herself with looking out of the window, though there was nothing to see. Her lips were red, too.

"I am just a woman," she replied in a melodic voice. "Just an instrument. And you are Brandon Stark." She lifted the book he had been reading, and she studied it with those red eyes. "You would do well to read this, boy. There are no gods here save for The Lord of Light and the Great Other. It will help you survive." She offered him the book, and when Bran took it, the pages were warm.


	4. More Interesting Than Patches

**(A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. The next will be longer.)**

They supped alone in their chambers. Bran didn't know why, but he and Shireen were taken like babies into the room they shared, with a little table filled with food like shallow meat and cold soup. He, like his brother Rickon, had always been picky about his food, but he didn't complain because Shireen never complained and he didn't want to seem ungrateful.

He had not touched his book since given it, having stuffed the tome of pages under the bed, inside an old weather-beaten trunk so Shireen would not find it. The book made him somewhat uneasy. Everything made him uneasy now.

Shireen had a small drinking horn that was ringed with iron and flashed pearlishly under the gentle embrace of the moon. Bran did not adore the thing as she did, but he could not deny its beauty as she raised the horn to her lips. "Are you enjoying your meal, my lord?" she asked him, going a faint pink as she did so.

"I am, thank you, my lady," he replied. Now he had known his wife a little longer, the greyscale in her face looked not near so grotesque. In fact, he could even grow to like her. "Are you enjoying yours?" Shireen smiled and did not reply. Bran laughed. "The soup's not _that _bad."

She pulled a face. They had erected candles around them, dribbling wax as they supped together. He could dimly make out her features; the dark hair, the pale face, her guileless blue eyes made darker in this light. "It _is _that bad," she insisted. Bran was quietly astonished at her remark. He thought _he'd _be the first to break and express his resentment over their fare. She giggled. "You're more interesting than Patches, my lord," she said, rose from her meal and bade him good night.


	5. History

**The Histories **was the first part of Bran's book. The writing was very small and very elegant and it reminded Bran of his mother and Jon Snow and the whisper of his lord father's greatsword when it whistled down to execute a Night's Watch traitor. Sometimes when he gazed at a garish diagram for too long the pages flared with sudden heat and his fingers would go red. But instead of disgusting him, the book made him very curious, and he read the book to himself aloud (but some of the long words complicated his understanding.) The reference to _the one true belief _confused him. Lord Eddard Stark was an honest, honourable man, and he had prayed to the Old Gods of the Forest, while his mother liked to worship in the sept for the new. Was the North wrong? _Was Father wrong_? he wondered.

"What are you reading?"

He hadn't heard the even, almost authoritative voice above him. Well, the voice was even enough, but it sounded brittle, ironlike. Bran felt the pages heat up and he snapped the red book shut. Stannis Baratheon stood above him, grinding his jaw. Apart from that jaw, the eyes, and the hair, he bore no resemblance to his daughter. "A— a book... Your Grace," Bran said quickly. "About history."

Stannis' eyes stared steadily into his, and it chilled his blood. He recalled a certain picture in the book. An old man had a younger one chained with crimson fetters and was slicing off his manhood for the fires. The old priest had looked neutral, but those eyes hinted at coldness. "History," the king repeated, his voice tight. "_History _doesn't win wars, _history _does not recover harvests, _history _will not stay the long dark arm of death. _History_—"

"—is the path to the present, Queen Selyse says," a young soldier behind him interrupted foolishly.

Stannis Baratheon seemed to remember the men behind him and his large, broad-shouldered figure spun around to face them. "You follow me like a flock of sheep," he snarled. Then, seemingly forgetting Bran was even there, Stannis strode past his men and out of his chamber. His men shifted and flushed and eventually followed. Bran thought about the king's stormy dark blue eyes, and he tried to imagine them filled with fear or love or lust or anything apart from anger or grim determination. He flicked back to his page in **The Histories**, but he read it slightly nervously, until he'd skimmed five pages and there was no trace of curiosity left. There was an image of a beautiful woman on the sixth, with a man driving a sword into her breast. _With his final attempt, the chosen hero, Azor Ahai, laboured for a hundred days and nights. He asked of his wife, Nissa Nissa, to bare her breast, and with a heavy heart drove_... Bran closed his book, feeling quite nauseous. For some bewildering reason only the gods knew, he wanted someone to hold. Not his mother or his father. He wanted Shireen.


	6. Sons and Rusted Thrones

**(A/N: Concerning Bran's ability to have children, I'm sure that in one of Eddard's narratives it says something about him never being able to hold his own child or something to that effect. However, the story is about to change; plots are being hatched and ideas are being planted…)**

Shireen Baratheon had, she was quite sure, never been loved in an intimate sense. Yes, she had Patchface, but he was half-mad and even if he were sound of mind she doubted she'd receive any love from him.

She didn't mind. In fact, she felt stronger because of this particular deprivation. She wasn't extremely clever or tactical, and she lacked the physical aesthetics of young girls and physical strength. Yet she knew some songs and she could even dance, and mayhaps she could plait a maiden's thick hair. She could be polite and kind, too. She went to see Summer sometimes and the direwolf's gaze was awfully wise. Her lord husband's paralysis prevented him from walking, and that made Shireen feel rather sad. "We've another thing in common," she said now. "We're both broken. I have grey on one side of my face, and he cannot rise. That's so dreadful."

Patchface cackled. "In the sea, the tridents of mermen rise, and sea foam crowns and rusted thrones, I know, I know, oh oh oh." His soft fat face broke into a smile, his eyes shining. _Rusted thrones_, Shireen mused. Was her father fighting for a rusted throne? Being a princess made her feel weary._  
_

"I wonder where the lord commander is," Shireen said quietly. "Jon Snow."

"He will be dying," a voice said. Shireen whipped her dark head about to see Lady Melisandre smiling warmly back. "He disregards near all of importance, would you agree, princess?"

"I haven't… I haven't had the pleasure of meeting him, my lady."

Lady Melisandre looked faintly amused. "I may be able to heal him, little princess. But first, I would like to know you better." Her voice was melodic and alluring; her lips were red; a ruby pulsed at her neck. "You are a very pivotal person, princess. A daughter of the rightful king. This Brandon… He won't make you feel like a pivotal person. R'hllor has recognised his cold heart. Selyse has recognised his lack of… ah…"

"I must be leaving, my lady," Shireen said clumsily. "My lord husband–"

"–Have you always loved him?" the red priestess interrupted. Shireen stilled, and a whisper against the floor heralded Melisandre's approach. "You are a pivotal person, princess," she whispers. "And you are beautiful. Haven't you always desired for your lord husband to call you beautiful?"

Shireen stared. "Are you a magic woman?" she whispered. "Are you a creature? Are you going to harm my father, or will you make him get Mother to give him sons?" She blinked, her blue eyes soaking into her red ones.

"Sons," Melisandre says with a wry smile. "If shadows rule the day, what takes control of the night? No, princess. My thoughts stray far from _sons_."


	7. Maybe Possibly

When Brandon Stark tried to recover _**The**_ _**Histories** _he found it to be missing.

He was almost completely certain he had left it underneath the large bed in his and Shireen's chambers, nestled between two plump trunks full of forgotten jewellery and scrolls from stewards and unimportant messages sent informing of any progress made in the Night's Watch countless moons ago. He'd searched, he and Hodor, and found nothing except from one of Shireen's old hairbrushes. Bran gave up, defeated and moderately confused.

Concerning Shireen, he never quite knew how he felt around her. He remembered their first night after their wedding and he saw, in the dull light, her woman's garden betwixt her thighs. Her blue eyes seemed much bluer than they had been when he dreamt about them, though Bran had no idea why all his dreams had a recurring theme of her eyes when he was Summer.

Brandon Stark contemplated the thought that he could, just maybe, just possibly, maybe possibly be in love with her. He admitted it to himself in the early hours, when he lit a candle and looked over at not just the nice side of her face but the ruined one as well, and he'd frozen like that for a long time, just staring until he was roused out of his lethargy when candle wax started dripping down his fingers. "Lady Shireen," he muttered to himself, just to see how the name flowed, "Lady Stark." And then the book was forgotten — he didn't want to see gruesome pictures of burned flesh and tortured female heretics when he was maybe possibly in love with Stannis Baratheon's daughter, the homely princess.

Love was strange to him; he'd never really _loved _a woman in that sense, just the glow that resonated through him when his lady mother praised him. He had never known whether he truly loved Meera Reed, because if he had, why couldn't he recall her face as strongly as he could Shireen's?

As he contemplated — he'd been doing a lot of that — within his chambers, looking outside, he heard crying.

It was warmer than it had been for a while, and the Wall was weeping, though noticeably less than it had done so in the past. Bran had his furs on, watching the boys in the yard spar. As he gazed out, animalistic sputters were released behind him, violent sobbing drowning out his thoughts. "Oh Bran!" his lady wife cried, slamming the door. "How, by the grace of the gods, am I supposed to tell Mother?"

"Tell what?" Bran enquired, shaken by her tears, and felt wistfully about his useless legs preventing him from getting up.

Shireen Baratheon descended upon him. "My moon's blood!" she wept. "Oh, was ever anything so joyous or sad? I wish I were just a girl, not a woman. And how can I provide you with sons with your…" She threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "Bran, it hurts," she whispered to him. "Don't tell." She wiped away her tears and stood erect, a calm ice princess, and Bran again thought that he was maybe possibly in love with her. "I'll inform Mother now," she told him, and swept gracelessly from the room.

Bran turned to the window and, thanking the gods no one could read his thoughts, wished he could give sons and he wished she wouldn't hurt.

His eyes travelled down the window and he saw Lady Melisandre standing in the light snow, smiling with her smug red lips, a ruby winking at her throat, and a wave of sinister fear rippled down Bran's spine.


End file.
